The Grave Robbers of Sarnath
by Anubis-Rha
Summary: A short story, the tale of two knowledge seekers and what they unearthed. R/R!


"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."  
  
The Grave Robbers of Sarnath  
  
As I gaze down the cold steel of the barrel, I ponder how much time I actually have left. My hands are shaking with fear, fear of something that should not be, something that should never have been unearthed. I will tell you the tale - in the hope that you will never have to face the accursed thing that haunts the night. It was all Simon's fault. We were friends for ages, as long as I can remember. It seems like we were born together now that I think about it. But now, Simon is a giant ribbon, a shredded corpse, and I am driven to self-annihilation to escape his damned fate. How could it have come to this? Why did I follow him against my will? Even now, the dark Nemesis is coming for me - I can feel it. It started almost a year ago today, when Simon and I had become so bored with our quest for knowledge; O, what an anniversary! We were seekers of enlightenment in our youths, an enlightenment of any kind. For me, it was more of a personal test, but for Simon, it was a quest for fame. He was seeking a great enlightenment which would make him superior to the world. He sought an enlightenment that he would do anything necessary to attain. We started out innocently enough, reading DaVinci's work, quoting Socrates, and admiring Raphael's paintings. We went through the Renaissance in about a year, and we still had no great enlightenment. Next, we moved onto religious systems, in hope of some enlightenment. Still no luck. We had gone through nearly everything any enlightenment in the world had to offer in the span of about five years, and, exhausting every resource, we became bored. I can recall the day well now; it was a dreary September thirteenth, nearly ten years ago now.  
  
We were sitting in Simon's parlor, and we were reading over some of the works that Aristotle had produced during the height of his time when I suggested, purely as a joke, that perhaps the dead have the enlightenment that we were seeking, and that is why we couldn't find it anywhere in a book. This was purely for laughs on my part, but Simon took it seriously. At my suggestion, he dropped his book, and stared out his window with glazed eyes. After a few minutes, I managed to rouse him from his cold stare, after which he promptly told me to hurriedly pack my things, because we were headed for Italy. He called in his manservant, and in merely a few minutes, I was headed back to my home to gather my things. I packed light, because I thought that his delirium would pass. Whatever idea he had for the dead would be over with shortly right? Well, as it turns out, I was wrong. Very wrong.  
  
When we arrived in Italy, we proceeded to Venice, where we met with some family he had that lived just outside in a small town on the verdant hillside. The family was nice enough, letting us in on such short notice and even producing grand meals. They were visibly poor, but their hospitality was extremely rich, so the surroundings didn't matter that much to me. We spent two days there before Simon began. It was on the third night; he came to my chamber and woke me up, spades in each hand and a cart waiting outside. The night was foggy, barely visible, but the moon shone brightly, and it seemed like a thin shroud was hanging in front of our faces. We traveled for almost an hour, until the cart finally came to a stop. I tied the horses to a sturdy tree I found nearby, and Simon lit two lanterns. He gave me a lantern and a spade, and bade me to follow him closely. I followed him closely, but I couldn't help notice the surroundings. It was a dark dreary place, and I could see mangled trees that cast their branches into the shroud, tearing it open where they angled into the night. As I walked, staring at the trees and trying to see anything in front of me, I fell. Abruptly, without warning, I tripped over some giant rock that was in the ground. I felt like a clumsy idiot, staring at the sky losing my footing over some rock that was sticking out of the ground. But it wasn't just some rock. A held the lantern up, and lit a match so I could see to re-light it. When I struck the match, I was filled with a sense of horror. What I saw wasn't some stone jutting out off the ground, but a gigantic granite slab with an engraving on it. It read:  
  
Here Lies Anne Whittemaker 1901 - 1918  
May She Rest In Peace  
  
It was then that I realized where we were. We were in a graveyard. What was Simon thinking!?! I shouted for him, and he came running out of the mist covering my mouth as I wildly stammered, trying to get him to explain his madness to me. He quieted me too fast though; afraid I would wake some nearby villagers who would call the police on us. Another wave of dread washed over me when I realized his plan. He was going to rob a grave. He handed me my spade, and told me to follow him. I followed him only because I was afraid of being left alone and being captured by townsfolk or police had I gotten lost. How would I explain walking out of a cemetery with a spade in one hand and a lantern in another to someone? What could I say? So, I followed Simon. We stopped over an unmarked grave where he coaxed me into helping him dig up the body, which filled me with horror at first, but then intrigued me. I wondered to myself, what is it like to meet Death? Are these people locked in terror, or are they just as peaceful as they can possibly be? Little did I know, that is a question that I didn't really want an answer to.  
  
We dug for hours, until exhaustion all but consumed us. Finally, I struck something hard. A feeling of horror and excitement welled up inside me as Simon reached down to the coffer with a crowbar. He wedged it into the side, and, with great difficulty, he managed to break the seal of the coffer. A waft of rotting air hit us in the face, and we both vomited on the ground next to the coffer. Simon beckoned me to hand him the thick blanket that he had brought with him. He wrapped the corpse up and lifted it out of the coffer, gently replacing the lid. Then we pushed the dirt back into the grave, patted it down and tried to make it look undisturbed as possible. Simon grabbed the front of the corpse, and I grabbed the legs. We carried it back to the cart hurriedly, because the sun had begun to rise. We hoped no one would be out too early in the morning so we wouldn't be captured, and, to our luck, there wasn't a soul. We raced back to the house at top speed, nearly losing an axle and the corpse at the same time. When we finally made it back, Simon dropped me off, and told me to let his family know that we would be leaving today. He was going to stow the corpse on a boat in the harbor so we could take it back to England with us.  
  
When he returned that afternoon, the family had prepared us the grandest feast I had ever laid eyes upon, and we eagerly ate; hungry from out escapade in the local graveyard. After dinner, we both packed with haste, eager to escape without getting caught. We left at dusk, and the blood red sky was a comfort to look at as Venice settled from our view. Once it had fully disappeared, we both let out a sigh, relieved that we had escaped without being captured. We remained on deck for a long while, talking about where Simon was headed with his grave robbery. He claimed that there was a great amount that we could learn from the dead medically, and there was also a good profit to be made out of thievery. In our depraved quest for enlightenment, we had already done enough, so I saw no harm in becoming enlightened and rich at the same time. That, apparently, was the commencement of my downfall.  
  
We got back into England nearly 2 days later, because there was a delay when we passed through a storm and took some structural damage. Our cargo had remained fully intact though, and that was all Simon and I cared about. We took it back to the mansion that we shared, and Simon revealed to me his hidden study. Apparently, he had turned to the demonic in order to try and become enlightened, and he had actually found it to his liking. He had something of a small museum, but it was waiting to be filled; with whatever its curator had to offer for it. The museum was a circle, with pathways through the empty exhibit shells forming a star, and there was a table at the middle. We carried the corpse to the table, where Simon unraveled the thing and we began our heretical experiments on it. We lifted nearly one hundred pounds off it, in the form of jewelry, and black market organs. Along with the riches, we began to learn more about the bounds of medical sciences, and that we could break them easily. Our experiments, so ungodly, I dare not mention, for fear that some other poor soul may attempt to try what we have! No one deserves our fate.  
  
Our robbing escapades took us around the world, to the U.S., Africa, Asia, and many other continents. We became extremely rich, and our knowledge of medical science became boundless. In mere months we were highly acclaimed doctors, sought after throughout the world. But deep down, we still sought that greater enlightenment that we thought we were closer and closer to reaching everyday. Our experiments were conducted in secret, by only the two of us, in that underground diabolism that we had stocked full by now. There were organs, of all types and varying decay, heads, and even some preserved bodies. To the normal person, it was a hideous dungeon that was the playhouse of madmen. To Simon and me, it was the answer. We were already madmen; lost in our quest to try and become enlightened, we were willing to do absolutely anything. Sitting in the museum one day, we were trying to decide where to travel to acquire the next subject for our tests. Simon had the perfect idea, or so we thought. Had I know what I know now, I would have never allowed it to happen. Or would I?  
  
We traveled to a small island off the coast of South America, known as Tierra del Fuego to the natives. "The Land Of Fire" was fitting, for all the volcanoes, but Simon had held out on me as to why it was really called that. Had he told me what truly lay in the ground there, I would never have joined him. The world had deemed this the final resting place for all those who were so demonical, so evil, that they were buried deep in the ground in hopes that the lava floes would cover them up forever. But Simon and I would see to it that at least one of them was brought back to England for further study. From one of the books he read, he gathered the coordinates of one of the most erudite demonic professors that had ever been buried on the island. On this trip it seemed, he not only wanted the body, but he wanted something to go with his collection of demonic arts and magicks. We had brought dynamite and other digging tools with us this time, because we would have to grind through thick layers of basalt to get to the actual gravesite of the professor known as Burearte. When we landed on the coast, I looked up at the island, and I don't think I have ever seen a more unforgiving place in my entire life. We set up a base camp on the shore, and we would set out for the inland the next morning to claim our prize. Sleep came uneasy to me that night, and I cannot say I have slept well ever since we laid foot on that accursed place.  
  
Even the morning in as unforgiving as I thought it was going to be. Traveling over the basalt wasn't easy either. It was all unformed, very sharp rock, and there were hidden crevices around every turn. Our journey was very hazardous, and because of the intense heat and dangerous landscape, I nearly lost my leg. We had to stop when I fell, and a great gash opened on the side of my leg where my clumsiness in the heat had gotten me stuck in a sharp basalt pit. Luckily, Simon had medical supplies, they were meant to preserve the corpse, but he decided that it would e logical to help me rather than be alone in this callous place. By early afternoon, when the sun had reached its highest, we came upon the spot where Simon had calculated his body to be. Oddly enough, there was actually an oasis near where Burearte lay. There were no basalt layers over his grave; it was rather a giant funnel that led down to the dirt. Simon and I jumped in and began digging furiously. Neither one of us wanted to remain here any longer that necessary. When we finally struck the coffer, it was cemented shut; as to never be opened, ever again. But Simon and I saw to it that it was. We grabbed our chisels and hammers, and we were driven the get the coffer open, with great success.  
  
Unlike all the other corpses we had exhumed, there was no repugnant wave that flooded over us with this one, but it was scentless, which struck me as odd. When we opened the coffer, there were no points of decay, just an uncontaminated white skeleton that sat in the ground. We looked over the skeleton, marveling at it, because what we knew about decay told us that this would be impossible. None the less, Simon noticed an amulet that was wrapped around the thing's neck. It was small, and circular, much like a fifty cent piece from America, and there were engravings scratched primitively on it. I later learned what the engravings were there for. It was a warning to people like us. The engraving was Greek, and the letters were Delta, Epsilon, Alpha, Theta, and Eta. Death. We left the corpse there because it was of no use to us, and Simon pocketed the amulet. As we covered the corpse back up, I noticed that it was nighttime, and we had spent so long trying to get this corpse open for nothing at all. Simon begged to differ. This artifact we had may be something very important, and he wanted to research it once we got back to England. So we climbed out of the hole and lit our lanterns, the proceeded to hard back for our ship. As I looked at the scene behind us, I could swear that the moonlight cast its beams directly down upon the grave. From the oasis, there was a stirring, and thousands of bats flew out of the trees in a tornado above that accursed spot in the basalt. I could look back no longer at this point though, because I nearly fell in the basalt again.  
  
Back in England, Simon had spent the better of two weeks researching the amulet he had found, and all he could come up with was a page that had been torn out of his book and replaced with a warning. Apparently, the page was torn out because what was written on it was unnamed, and so unnamable, that no one should ever know about it. So the amulet remained a mystery to us, and we would sit in his study and read all we could to try and decipher what it truly was. This went on for about a week before the odd things began to happen.  
  
We became total recluses, without excursions to get anything outside of our homes; that is what Simon used his man-servants for. We were alone in the countryside, and our doors were very seldom disturbed by that of any visitor or passerby. Yet, as of late there were certain unexplainable things that were happening to us. First it was the sound of some long-off howling, an indescribable shriek that made our skin crawl. There were frequent fumblings in the night; all around the house on the doors and the windows. The only unnerving thing is this: the fumbling was on the upper windows as well as the lower, and no matter what we had planned to capture what vandals we thought were besieging us, our investigation failed every time. On one occasion we fancied that we saw some dark opaque figure standing in the great windows of the study while the moon shone brightly against it. Whether these were all just madness or not, we do know for certain that the wails were heard by us every night, a long shriek that seemed to get closer and closer to us every night. Then the terror beset upon us.  
  
It was September 13, the anniversary of when I began this madness be suggesting we should unearth the dead to get our answers. That night, there was a knock at my bedchamber door. I thought it to be Simon, with some new plan, or some new grave to rob somewhere in the world, so I bade the knocker enter; but I was answered by only a shrill laugh from the hallway. I raced to the door, but there was no one in the corridor, and it was impossible to be unseen because the corridor was so brightly lit and long. When I woke Simon from his sleep, he had no idea what I was talking about, and he became a worried as I did about the whole event. It was the night that the faint shrieks that had haunted us before now became loud enough to gently rattle the windowpanes of the house. Only a few days later, while we were trying to hide from the fact that some anonymous entity was hanging around the manor, we were experimenting on a corpse that had been preserved from one of our earlier trips. There came a low, guarded scratching from the hidden door into our study, and we were petrified. Our fear was divided now; we feared the unknown, but we had also held an acute fear that our anarchic practices should never be discovered. We extinguished all the lights and snuck up to the door, and without making a sound, we threw the door open, but there was nothing to be found. All that was waiting for us was a great blast of air which nearly knocked us over and a perplexing volume of inarticulate chatter. Whether we had gone mad, we were dreaming, or paralyzed with fright, we didn't care to find out. The only thing we knew was there was a small rock on the floor of the library, on the opposite side of the hidden staircase. We examined it closely, and we found out it wasn't any ordinary rock, it was igneous. It was basalt.  
  
The horror reached its pinnacle on the night of November 18. Simon was just arriving back in England from a medical conference in France. As he traveled back to the manor in the dark, from that dismal railway station, he was seized by some horrible thing that proceeded to tear him to ribbons. His screams reached the manor, and I sped to his side with great alacrity. Unfortunately, I was too late. All I saw was the cascade of wings into the air and a vague shape passing by the intensifying moon. Simon was dying as I spoke to him, and when I asked him what had happened, he couldn't answer me comprehensibly. I heard in a low whisper, "The amulet-that thing-that damnable thing-". And then he collapsed; a pile of mangled flesh ribbon.  
  
I buried him the following night in a garden outside the manor, and recited for him a particular demonic rite which he had loved so much during his life. As I finished the last sentence, the faint shrieking of that demon that had haunted us for so long carried itself over the countryside to me. The blood moon was rising, but I dared not to lay my eyes upon it. On some happen of chance, I saw the dark figure that attacked Simon passing over the country hills, a wide, tenuous shadow that was headed straight for me, probably to turn me into ribbons much like it had done to Simon. In a fit of terror, I closed my eyes and threw myself on top of the grave I had just finished digging. I don't know how long I remained there, but I know the thing didn't come for me then, perhaps because it still didn't quite know where the amulet was, or perhaps because a man-servant saw my plight and came out to help me back into the house. When I regained myself, I was aware of my fear of living alone, so I dismissed the few man-servants that remained and staggered into the hidden study, gazing at that vile amulet that Simon had encased in the glass of the center bookcase. I took the amulet with me, and burned the rest of our unspeakable acts to the ground. I departed the next day for London, hoping to escape that shrieking fiend that had taken Simon from this earth. To no avail though; three days later, the shrieking began again. Within a week, I could feel the gaze of strange eyes upon my back wherever I went at night. In the span of a few weeks, I had become very personable, and I refused to go anywhere at night without accompaniment. There was one evening, however, where I was strolling along on the docks, thinking about my predicament, and a black shape obscured a few nearby lanterns, which was followed by a gust of air that rushed by me, and I knew that what had transpired on Simon was soon to overtake me as well.  
  
The next day, I carefully wrapped the small charm and set sail for Tierra del Fuego. What mercy I hoped to regain by returning the thing I knew not; but I felt that I must try if I am to save myself. What my pursuer was, and why it wanted this amulet so, was unknown to me, along with many other vague questions, but its occurrences were undoubtedly connected to the horrid amulet that was wrapped in my pocket, and Simon's dying whisper had connected the last piece of the puzzle for me. I figured that the thing, whatever it was, was after the amulet which is why Simon was cursing it. I sank to the deepest abyss of despair when the amulet was stolen from me by a band of thieves in South America, for, not only had they stolen the charm, but they also stole my only means of returning my due. The shrieks were loud that evening, particularly the loudest I had ever heard them. In the morning I read in the news that a band of nearly fifty thieves hiding in a malevolent residence on the other side of town were laid in a bloodbath. Of the thieves, not one escaped. Men, women, and the children were all slaughtered without respect or prejudice. Whatever had committed the crime left no trace, and everyone insisted that they heard a malevolent wail the night before.  
  
So finally, I stood before the gaping hole that Simon and I had desecrated so long ago. The baying was faint and it ceased as I rappelled down the side of the chasm to the grave of Burearte. I don't know why I returned to the spot, perhaps to pray or maybe to just gibber insane apologies in hopes that I would be spared from the amulet's wrath. I attacked the dirt furiously, and I had reached the grave in record time, faster than I had ever gotten, even when Simon was helping me. A lone vulture swept down and began to peck furiously at the top of the casket, with such fervor that I pitied the poor bird and killed it with a blast of my spade. Finally, I reached down and removed the cover of the casket to that long, oblong box. That was the last rational act I have ever performed.  
  
Inside that aged coffer was the skeleton that I remember being there, but there was a gruesome difference. The skeleton was embraced in a close- quarters nightmare of thousands of sleeping, sinewy bats. The skeleton itself wasn't the ebony white thing that we had robbed, but it was now caked with blood and covered in alien hair and skin. It was leering at me with its sockets, and its sharp, twisted fangs were yawned open, mocking me of my impending doom. When it gave me that low, howling shriek that I had hidden from fro so long, I saw that it held the amulet in its gory claw, and I merely screamed and ran away mindlessly, my screams soon changing into a clangor of hysterical laughter.  
  
Now that you know, perhaps you can avoid the same fate that has befallen Simon and me. As the shrieking draws near, I can hear the flapping of the bats, and I can see the shadow of that unspeakable thing that lay in the ground in Tierra del Fuego. I shall seek my revolver for the oblivion which it my only asylum from the unnamed and the unnamable. 


End file.
